


Make Me.

by wtsnhlms



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Anal Sex, First Time, John loves Sherlock's glorious arse, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive John, Virgin Sherlock, pillow humping, random doses of feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 08:40:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7567576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtsnhlms/pseuds/wtsnhlms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John returns from a week-long conference only to find Sherlock in his bed. </p><p>Things escalate very quickly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make Me.

**Author's Note:**

> The new season 4 teaser trailer broke me, and I had this just waiting to be posted, and thus to help myself (and you, reading this) feel better, I porn'ed.

John drops his duffel bag in the foyer of 221B with an audible sigh and a huff of relief. 

 

He had been away for a whole week in Belgium for a medical conference he was lucky to have been given the chance to attend. Not only is he mentally exhausted; he misses his bed, his comfy jumpers (one doesn’t get to wear anything less than a suit at a medical conference), a good cup of tea, and mostly, - admittedly -, _Sherlock._

 

The detective had been mostly radio silent save for the occasional texts stating the mandatory _’bored!’_ and random facts about a case or two that he was working on. The last text he'd received had been so out of the blue that John still doesn't know what to think of it. 

 

_Everyday life is infinitely dull without you in it. - SH_

 

John can't help but wonder if Sherlock was even aware he'd sent that message. The two of them had finally got their act together after a chase through the streets of London, a couple of weeks ago that almost ended up with one of them in hospital. They'd only had to exchange a look before they were pressed up against one another, kissing for all it's worth. 

 

In the days that followed, casual touches escalated to the not-so-casual and John found that he couldn't go a single day without laying an innocent kiss anywhere on Sherlock's face. 

 

Despite having crossed beyond the realm of a platonic relationship, neither John nor Sherlock have dared voice out their affections; instead they made it known through actions alone - an adoring nudge here, a playful hair tousle there, to the extent that Sherlock would linger at John's periphery until John opened his arms for a cuddle. 

 

Yep, you read that right. The great detective Sherlock Holmes is a cuddler.

 

John stopped trying to figure out the man a long time ago and learned to just take it as it is. Maybe both of them were just afraid of bursting that little bubble of contentedness, satisfied with their bond that blossomed with each day that passes by. 

 

And because whatever they had was so new and utterly _fragile_ , John did not dare ask more of Sherlock; he would never put himself first and pressure Sherlock into taking their relationship further. Even if Sherlock decides he never wants a physical relationship, then it’s fine. It’s all _fine_ , as long as they get to keep each other.

 

Tip-toeing his way up the steps to the flat, John tries to hold back a wide grin, wanting to sneak up on his flatmate. He braces himself to find the flat in disarray, but once he pushes the door open, he is surprised to find it almost… clean. There are no stray cups of tea on the floor, no experiments spilled onto the kitchen table, nor is there any additional bullet holes in the wall (there shouldn't be any, really, seeing as John now keeps his gun somewhere he knows Sherlock wouldn't have thought to search). 

 

Speaking of which, the man himself is nowhere in sight. He's not sulking on the sofa, perched at the kitchen table nor upturning the drawers in his room. 

 

‘ _On a case then_ ,’ John thinks, shoulders slumped in slight disappointment. As if on cue, he hears a muffled moan coming from his bedroom. John stills, posture alert, straining to pick up more sounds. It never occurs to him to wonder who could be in his bedroom in the first place.

 

He hears it again, this time sounding more pained. He'd recognise that underlying rumble anywhere; John sidles his way up the stairs and takes a careful peek around the slightly-opened door. 

 

What he sees promptly sends his jaw to the floor and blood rushing south.

 

Sherlock, _his_ Sherlock, is fully naked, lying on his stomach, on John's bed. The sheets are tangled around his long legs and are rustling with every thrust of bony hips against cotton. One hand is grasping needily at the sheets while the other is partially hidden, wrist flexing, fingers causing slick sounds at the general area of Sherlock's arse. 

 

‘ _Oh dear God, he's fingering himself_ ,’ John realises. His pulse is picking up, and sweat starts to prickle at the back of his neck. His breathing starts getting shallower; John knows he shouldn't be watching, but frankly he has always been curious about this side of Sherlock, and damn if this is not the sexiest thing he's ever seen. 

 

“Unhh,” Sherlock moans into the pillow he's shoved his face into. His hips stutter downwards and forwards, seeking friction against every part of his body he can get. His fingers pick up speed, and all the movement causes the covers to slide off of Sherlock's lower torso, exposing his bottom to the air. 

 

Oh, and what a _spectacular_ arse it is. “Bloody hell,” John breathes, his hand shifting down to adjust the growing tightness in his jeans. He'd always taken notice of Sherlock’s plump behind, more times than not, courtesy of well-tailored trousers that leave nothing to the imagination. Once, he had to excuse himself from the crime scene because Sherlock had chosen then and there to fully bend over the poor victim's body to examine something, round arse sticking out for all to see. 

 

John shakes off the fogginess in his head, eyes roaming over Sherlock's lithe, sweaty form. His arse is perfectly unmarked, smooth, perfectly pale. Sherlock may be all bone, but evidently what little food he allows himself to consume now and then tended to go straight to his bottom. 

 

John watches, mouth watering at the sight of Sherlock's gluteus muscles flexing with every desperate thrust alternately forwards into the pillow placed under his hips and backwards, impaling himself on what looks like three fingers. 

 

He startles when Sherlock _wails_ John's name into the heavens as his hips give a particularly powerful thrust, his body tensing up. 

 

“Johnnnnn, oh god-”

 

John braces one arm against the doorframe while his left hand fumbles with the button to his jeans, unzipping as quietly as he can. His jaw is clenched and he's breathing harshly through his nose, barely managing to suppress a loud moan as he thrusts his hand inside his pants, wrapping it around his cock, slick already from the precome he's steadily leaking. 

 

He starts stroking himself from root to tip, twisting his wrist on the upstroke as he times the speed of his strokes with each jerk of Sherlock's hips. His partner is absolutely writhing on the bed, having removed his hand from his arse; he is rocking forward in abandon, back muscles flexing deliciously, arse clenching painfully as he humps the pillow below him. 

 

John pumps his cock in tandem, his eyes closed and teeth biting down on his lower lip enough to draw blood. He tunes out everything except for the sounds of bed sheets rustling and the beautiful sounds erupting from Sherlock's pillow-covered mouth. 

 

He feels the tension start at his toes, shooting up his spine and settling in his groin as he chases his orgasm. John's legs threaten to give out but he pushes ahead, Sherlock's grunts and whimpers driving him on. He grits his teeth and hurriedly pushes the rest of his jeans out of the way to stare dazedly at his hand as it worked to bring him off. 

 

(At this point he doubts Sherlock hasn't heard him yet but to hell with shame. They'd crossed that threshold when he'd come home to Sherlock in his bed.) 

 

John finds himself about ready to burst, and when he glances up as he hears his name once more, right at that moment Sherlock gives a final thrust, arching his back and stretching that beautiful neck, mouth open in a wordless scream as he comes and comes and _comes_ , hips stuttering, chest heaving.

 

John tumbles into his orgasm right then, biting down on his propped up elbow to muffle his pleasured grunts as he paints his hand and the door with spurts of come. His vision blacks out for a moment, eyes stinging with the intensity of his release with Sherlock's sated moaning of his name in the background. His cock twitches a few more times, wringing out every last drop out of him. He hadn’t had an orgasm that paralysing for a long time, John realizes, afraid to peer around the door lest seeing Sherlock post-orgasm make him want to do things he still doesn’t think they’re ready for.

 

Evidently his wrung-out body decides for him anyway, tricking his mind into prompting him to lean against the door for support as he attempts to pull up his pants and jeans; the door swings inwards, sending John sprawling onto the floor in front of a flabbergasted Sherlock, his bottom half still bare and his face as red as a beet.

 

“Well.. This is awkward,” John states, matter-of-factly, fumbling to right himself and pull up his pants. “What am I saying… sorry, shouldn't have stood there but I couldn't help myself-”

 

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock says, now sitting up on the bed, still fully exposed and not bothering to cover himself up. “You weren't supposed to be home until later tonight, I even calculated your arrival time!”

 

“Yeah, well, I managed to squeeze myself in on an earlier flight so…” John scratches at the back of his neck, still mortified at the situation they're in. “H-how was your day going?”

 

“Really, John? Acting all casual about this like you didn't just admit to having watched me masturbate? Never took you for a voyeur, honestly,” Sherlock rumbles, voice dropping impossibly lower the more he talked. He lays his hands casually in his lap, head tilting in mock appraisal. 

 

“That's not the first thing you deduced wrong about me. Remember the thing about Harry?” John counters with a wink. He tries to tuck himself back in but finds himself frozen under Sherlock's scrutiny. “Uh.. So, all this while I thought you weren't open to the idea of sex, I come home to find you in my bed.”

 

“I am also human, John. I now realise I have needs too, like everyone else. Thanks to you I discovered my capacity to _feel_. Fear, attachment, hunger, adoration, love, and now, lust. Though now that I've examined closely that aspect of me, I've concluded that I'll only ever feel desire for one person, and one person only. That being you, obviously.”

 

“You love me?” John pipes up, eyes lighting up and warmth blooming in his chest. He refuses to let Sherlock's last sentences take control over him. 

 

“You're an idiot,” Sherlock smiles, eyes flashing. “and yes I do, _obviously_.”

 

John stares at Sherlock. Sherlock stares back, unblinking. He feels the tension rising fast and hot in the room, eliciting an interested twitch from his still-exposed cock. He knows Sherlock feels it too. 

 

“Well? What are you still doing all the way down there?” Sherlock smirks. 

 

John pushes up from the floor in as dignified a manner as he could attempt, launching himself onto the bed and attaching himself to Sherlock's plush lips. “God, you were magnificent, you madman. My bed, though?” John voices in between heated kisses. 

 

“Mhmm, it's soaked in your scent. I missed everything; your face, your smile, your smell, god, it's why I had to choose your sodding bed and the pillow I know you never fail to cuddle when you sleep. Sorry about that,” Sherlock pulls back, face flushed in embarrassment or arousal, John can't tell. 

 

“Well you won't need that when you've got me,” John emphasises by flinging said (soiled) pillow onto the bedroom floor, continuing to lay kisses down Sherlock's jaw and neck. “That was hot, by the way, you desecrating my pillow while you had your, um, fingers up your arse.”

 

“You mean this?” Sherlock grins, pulling John's hands from his shoulders to settle on the top of his perfectly round arse. 

 

“Fuck, I've been dreaming of this for so long, and it feels even better than I imagined,” John gasps, mouth full of Sherlock's collarbone, hands squeezing Sherlock's butt cheeks on reflex. “You have no right flaunting these in public.”

 

John moans when Sherlock chooses that moment to flex his glutes, subtly pushing himself closer to John. “Get these off. I want to see the rest of you,” Sherlock prompts with a cursory tug at John's half-opened jeans. 

 

“Bossy,” John says, removing himself from the bed, stripping his shirt and bottoms off in record speed, eager to return to the bed as quick as possible. He settles back on the sheets, nudging Sherlock to lay on his back, but he refuses to budge. “Please, Sherlock?”

 

“Make me,” Sherlock taunts, voice dark and sultry, eyes clouded over with something akin to danger. 

 

“Fuck,” John _growls_ , tackling Sherlock, kissing him hard and rough, covering the taller man's body with his own. He pushes down, and down some more, until Sherlock has no choice but to lie down, whimpering at John's show of dominance and the slide of his heated body against John's own. The feeling of their bodies pressed together is exquisite, and John can't help but surge up and bite down on the unmarked skin of Sherlock’s neck, giving in to the need to mark Sherlock as his own.

 

“John!” Sherlock howls, one hand finding its way to John’s head where he tries to hold on, the other scratching nails down John’s back. John worries the bite with his tongue, soothing the burn, kissing and licking his way down to Sherlock’s chest, pausing at a darkened nipple, wasting no time in pulling it between his teeth. He sucks it into his mouth as he gives his first thrust, moaning deep against Sherlock’s chest as he feels Sherlock’s hardening length against his own.

 

“Your refractory period is impressive,” John points out, nibbling his way back to Sherlock’s mouth for a kiss. He rewards the man writhing between him with another thrust, releasing a shuddering breath as he struggles to comprehend that this is really happening.

 

“As is yours, even for an old man,” Sherlock laughs, opening his mouth to allow John’s tongue to sweep in as their lips wrestle for control.

 

“Old man, eh?” John huffs, eyebrow raised in a challenge. He grabs both of Sherlock’s hands in his and pins it above the mop of curls, smirking back down at him before he plunders Sherlock’s mouth once more. Pulling his knees up, John straddles Sherlock’s stomach, rubbing his crotch over the sweaty skin, revelling in the delicious friction against his balls. “If I heard right, you said I’m the only one you’d ever want to do this with?”

 

Sherlock nods, too out of breath with arousal to speak. He squirms against John’s hold, hips moving in minute thrusts, seeking friction on his own aching cock.

 

“Well you’re doing pretty well for someone who hasn’t had sex before,” John points out, releasing his hold on Sherlock’s wrists, shuffling down his body to settle on his stomach between Sherlock’s legs. He eyes Sherlock’s cock, almost salivating at the sight.

 

“Oh do keep up, John. I may not have been with anyone before then, but I certainly know how to handle things when my transport demands release once in a while-!” Sherlock gasps, cut off by the sensation of his cock in damp heat as John takes him in his mouth in one go, nose buried in the soft curls at the base. “ _Fuck!_ ”

 

John almost chokes around his mouthful as he registers Sherlock’s first ever curse, wrapping a hand around the base and pulling up, only to tongue at the foreskin, tasting the few drops of precome gathered at the head. The taste of him is heady and everything he didn’t expect and more. Being able to bring Sherlock pleasure like this still feels surreal and so John basks in the compliments that start spilling forth from the detective’s mouth. Taking Sherlock in once more, he sucks and pulls, building a rhythm that reignites the spark low in his belly. 

 

“God, John, _your mouth_ , more, I need, I need-” Sherlock moans, left hand snaking down to settle on the top of John’s head, the other hand alternately grasping at his own hair and the bed sheets. As John takes him to the root, he glances up to take in Sherlock’s form, stretched and restless, chest and neck mottled in a pretty pink flush. Reaching up, he pinches two pink, pert nipples, delighting in the obscenely loud moan that escapes the taller man’s mouth.

 

Sherlock is _gorgeous_ like this, his pale torso lightly dusted in freckles, flushed from arousal; his pink tongue escaping his lips, bite-swollen; his sinful neck, adorned with the proud red-blue bruise from John’s bite, to the smooth expense of his concave belly and sharp hip bones. This beautiful specimen belongs to John; will ever only be touched by him and him alone. Fumbling blindly, John grabs Sherlock’s hand, and gives it a hard squeeze.

 

He releases Sherlock’s throbbing length, precome bitter at the back of his throat, ducking his head to suck Sherlock’s balls into his mouth, pressing hard at the crease. He feels the heaviness of them on his tongue and knows Sherlock is already close.

 

“Guh… John, oh god, I’m almost..” Sherlock whines, nudging John with his foot until John releases his balls and takes Sherlock’s leaking cock in his mouth once more, alternating long pulls with his fist, swallowing each time the hard length of him hits the back of his throat.

 

“Wait...stop!” Sherlock says, sitting up. John releases him, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Come here, you.”

 

John acquiesces, nuzzling the taller man, kissing him slowly, gently, quashing his fear that he just did something wrong. “You alright?”

 

“I'm perfect,” Sherlock smiles, flipping onto his stomach, much to John's surprise. “Now **fuck me**.”

 

John gapes open-mouthed at him. “Fucking hell, Sherlock,” he growls, low, grabbing a stray pillow and shoving it under Sherlock's raised hips. “Lube?”

 

A bottle is thrown in his general direction. “Don't worry about me, I'm still open,” Sherlock states proudly. 

 

John swallows around the hard lump in his throat, flicking the bottle open to pour some lube down Sherlock's exposed cleft and some on his own neglected cock. He groans at the sensation; seeing Sherlock's pink hole presented to him only serves to ramp up his need for release. Tentatively, he slides his forefinger past the ring of muscle, breath hitching as it pushes in with no resistance. 

 

“Good god,” John breathes, giving his own cock a squeeze at the base, his eyes squeezed shut, willing his arousal to simmer down. Not wanting to waste any more time, he pushes in his middle finger alongside the first, watching hungrily as Sherlock's body swallowed them up eagerly, his other hand preoccupied with kneading the plump arse before him.

 

“Come _on_ , John!” Sherlock urges, squirming under John's ministrations. “I need it, please, oh god-”

 

Satisfied, John pulls his fingers out, adding a bit more lube to his eager cock before laying a gentle hand on Sherlock's hips to get him into position. Settling on his knees, he drapes himself fully on top of his lover - John has to pause to absorb this new piece of information - to mouth at the back of that long neck. 

 

Rubbing his cock along the damp crease of Sherlock's arse, John nudges Sherlock's face up from where it has buried itself into the pillow he's clutching, laying one last kiss onto that cupid’s bow. The kiss through which John makes known his undying devotion, trust and love for the man in his arms. 

 

They lock gazes, eyes wanting and soft, yet desperate and heated. 

 

John pulls back; Sherlock settles further into the pillows and into John's lap, and in one smooth thrust they are joined. They groan in unison, one adjusting to the tight snug heat, the other willing his muscles to relax and welcome the intrusion. 

 

John doesn't want to draw it out. He knows they both need it hard and fast this first time round, and so he withdraws all the way until only the head of him is buried inside Sherlock before his hips snap forward, aiming directly for Sherlock's prostate. 

 

Sherlock howls, body tensing, back muscles flexing under John's hands. He scrambles for a firmer grip on the pillows as he parts his knees further, opening himself up. John licks his lips and moans at the sight, sweat trickling down his forehead with the exertion. 

 

He buries himself deep in Sherlock's body over and over, the sounds of bare skin slapping against bare skin obscene in the heated air of John's bedroom. 

 

“Oh god, John, _John_ , fuck, harder, mm-” Sherlock whimpers, hand reaching behind him to grasp at John's hip, reaching for something, anything-

 

He finds John’s hand, pulling him down until his front is flush with Sherlock’s back, the full body contact making both men shudder. John gasps, elbows braced on each side of the man below him as he chases his orgasm, leaving a trail of bites down Sherlock’s neck, The taste of him, the needy sounds punctuating the air and the combined scent of sweat and pheromones from their lovemaking leaves John gasping for air, keening as he feels Sherlock start to tense up.

 

“John! Ah-!” Sherlock’s orgasm take them both by surprise, John continuing to thrust even as Sherlock’s internal muscles clamp down hard, the detective nothing but a mess of twitching limbs and gasping breaths in his arms, his release creating a mess of the bed sheets.

 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” John huffs, bringing his arms under and over to grab Sherlock’s shoulders, his face buried in the curls at the base of the neck, mouth puffing hot, heavy breaths as he speeds up his thrusts, just on this side of too much and finally he is _there_ , groaning Sherlock’s name as he seizes, groin pressed impossibly close to Sherlock’s arse, shifting in quick minute thrusts as he feels his come flood his lover’s insides, eyes prickling at the corners with tears as he rides the force of his orgasm.

 

They come down from their high together; they shudder with oversensitivity, feeling each other’s rapid heartbeats, hands clasped tight, lodged between the mattress and Sherlock’s heart. 

 

John laughs, exhausted yet more contented and exhilarated than he’s ever been in his life, nuzzling Sherlock’s sweat-slick skin. He giggles, catching sight of Sherlock’s wide-eyed expression.

 

“You alright, love?” he asks.

 

“I can’t… move,” Sherlock whimpers. “John Watson, you broke me.”

 

John laughs. “Oh?”

 

“That was better than a locked room triple murder.”

 

“I love you too, you git.”

**Author's Note:**

> Guys I had "slowly, gently" in the text before the sdcc panel even happened. *bursts into tears*
> 
> [my tumblr](http://wtsnhlms.tumblr.com) <3 if you wanna say hi!


End file.
